The Bloodstained Moon
by Buizel Rubeda
Summary: The day in which Spyro and Cynder will finally confront Malefor approaches, and Spyro lies awake in Warfang, wondering what horrors may lie ahead...and what he might lose in the climactic finale between him and the Dark Master.


_**LŪNAE CRUENTĀTAE PLORĀRE**_

(This is a simple one-shot about Spyro's mental and emotional state during _Dawn of the Dragon_, specifically in Warfang. For details on the timing, see the summary I have posted in the first chapter of my story, _Thunderclap_. Sorry about the Latin title, but it adds a desirable touch of poetry, and, again, this one-shot is designed to be complementary — a characterization element, as it were. Feel free to review despite that…)

Spyro was falling, falling through smoky shadows that clung to him like ash as he plummeted. He tried to scream, but when he opened his mouth, the darkness poured down his throat and into his stomach, burning like fire, immolating him from the inside out, scorching his muscles as his nerves screamed in agony —

The smoke was gone, replaced by shards of light, like beads of water on a spider's web displayed beneath a winter sun. Spyro felt like he was floating through a sea of stars, and as he watched, paralyzed by an ineffable, sepulchral cold, the stars became a haze of white light surrounded by deepest black. The wisps of light congealed into a gleaming, pale sheet: the moon…spattered in blood —

Spyro awoke with a start, his heart racing, his eyes dilated in terror, his breath coming in huge swoops, as though he had been fleeing at top speed from some monstrous pursuer. His entire body ached, and his vision was blurry at first.

As the seconds trickled by, his heartbeat and respiration slowed, his sight grew clear, and the dull pounding in his muscles subsided. He sighed.

That was the third time he'd had that dream. He stood slowly, being careful not to wake Cynder, who slept undisturbed a couple feet from him, and walked outside into the crisp night air.

Warfang, skeletal as it looked in the wan blue light of the moon, shadowed by the gruesome specter of war, retained a measure of ethereal beauty: The buildings clawed at the caliginous sky like an owl's curved talons; the golden streets glowed like cooling embers; and the wind coursing its way through the labyrinthine streets gave off a plaintive whine, as though some mysterious, invisible siren haunted the city's serpentine thoroughfares with her hypnotic songs.

Spyro took a few steps to the right of the little kiosk (being sure not to go far enough to trigger the magical chain whereby he and Cynder were bound) where he and Cynder and Sparx were staying with a few other soldiers and into an alley that lay nearby. The alley brimmed with shadow — but not the horrible, suffocating shadows from his nightmare: They were soft, welcoming shadows.

Spyro slid into their enveloping folds, savoring the fresh, autumnal breeze streaming through the alley. It had a calming effect on him: The last residual tremors from the dream began to seep away.

After a few minutes of nothing but the ghostly moaning of the wind, Spyro sighed again. He didn't understand why that nightmare kept plaguing him. Ever since they had arrived in Warfang almost a week ago, it had periodically ravaged his sleep.

What was that asphyxiating darkness, the significance of the bloody moon?

The wind grew colder as the night deepened — it had to be nearing midnight. Spyro shivered, sighed a third time, and reentered the kiosk.

It was precisely as he had left it: Cynder slumbered near the center of the room, her curled black form nearly indistinguishable from the surrounding shadows; Sparx lay like a little flickering ember, glistening on a shelf to the right. A couple of other dragons were asleep in the far corners, invisible in the night.

Spyro crossed over towards Cynder and sat down, unable to face the prospect of going back to sleep. His gaze roamed around the kiosk, settling momentarily on miscellaneous items – an extinguished candelabrum, a set of chain mail, a discarded ration container – but he found himself inexorably staring at Cynder.

At this angle, her scales caught the spectral, azure light of the moon and gleamed like obsidian; she seemed to be twitching slightly, as though perhaps her dreams, too, were tormented by inexplicable and ominous visions.

Spyro just barely touched her shoulder with the tip of his tail, perhaps hoping that somehow his touch would scatter her nightmares and let her sleep peacefully. That was something neither she nor Spyro had been able to do recently…

Cynder didn't know it, but Spyro knew of her restlessness of the past week: She tried to conceal it from him, but he could sense the dread that was beginning to consume her, the terror of the confrontation – with her past, with, in a sense, her very self – that had been deferred for three years and that now stood as the inevitable capstone to their journey — their destiny. He could tell that the thought of facing Malefor was absolutely mortifying, a thought that froze the very blood in her veins…

That thought brought back the memories of his dream, and Spyro shook his head to cast them away. He hoped that Cynder was not possessed of the same nightmare…

He glanced at her: Her body still quivered slightly – though that could have been from cold – and her eyes twitched periodically, as though she were trying to keep them closed against some terrifying monster, some unfathomable chimera.

Spyro tried to sense what she was dreaming: He found that sometimes, when he concentrated, he could hear her thoughts — at least, he supposed he did. He wasn't sure. Maybe he imagined it…

Cynder wasn't the only one worried about what was to come: Now that they were in Warfang, confronted with the very real, very immediate threat of the very gruesome army of minions that Malefor had dispatched against them, Spyro felt an impending sense of…what?

It wasn't fear, really — he wasn't afraid of the Dark Master. It was more of a sense of breathlessness, of terrible finality, of climax: This would be the confrontation that decided the fate of the dragon realms, that would seal the destinies of both Malefor and himself…and Cynder.

He found himself staring at her again. The only fear he felt was for her: She seemed so horrified, so paralyzed by the prospect of battling her former tormentor, of finally facing him once and for all, that Spyro feared – very tremendously – that she would not endure, that she would not be able to withstand the pressure, the gravity of it all.

And he knew he could not face the Dark Master without her: _That_ he had learnt from the past week. The chain with which Malefor had bound them to hinder their efforts to countervail his evil had, ironically, pushed them closer together: They were of one mind, of one heart — Spyro felt that to lose Cynder was tantamount to losing his own life, to being bled dry and left, desiccated and lifeless.

Spyro shook his head. There were times – like now – that he wished – so hard, so fervently that it ached, that his heart truly ached – that he had never been born if the very fact of his nonexistence would have spared the world Malefor's intrusion. He would gladly give up his powers, his destiny, his life…if only the Dark Master had never lived, had never tortured the world with his evil.

Spyro found his thoughts trailing away into melancholy, like the rustling of trees in a gale drowned by the wailing of the wind. Each time he blinked his eyes, images – or flashes, pieces of them – of a bloodstained moon, of wisps of sinister shadow, like feathers of smoke, were superimposed upon Cynder's dormant form, curled up before his eyes.

The sight of it made Spyro nauseous and amplified the plaintive cry that echoed around in his mind. He felt sick to his stomach. He looked outside, breathing in deeply, trying to take in the crisp, fresh air to settle the vertigo. A chill crept over him, and he instinctively leaned a little closer towards Cynder, shifting his wing so that it blocked her – at least partially – from sight.

Spyro waited a moment and then sighed. _What's the matter with you?_ he asked himself. It scared him, this strange, enfeebling sensation that was coming over him. _What does it mean?_

Though he tried to answer that question, Spyro inevitably found himself simply watching Cynder as she slept; his thoughts turned to her, and he was again stricken with that vertiginous, deathly cold feeling.

He shook his head. He knew what it was: fear. Not for himself…for Cynder. She was in an incalculable amount of danger — more than he was: Malefor simply wanted to kill Spyro…he would _torture_ Cynder. Spyro could not – _would_ not – let that happen…he _would _not.

Spyro knew that he would give his life for her in a heartbeat, but he feared that despite his willingness to sacrifice himself for her, fate – or some force far more sinister – would render him powerless to do so if necessary, would subject him to the torment, the ineffable, unfathomable, excruciating agony, of watching her die.

Right then and there, Spyro vowed that he would not let that happen: that whatever came, he would protect her from any evil, that he would spill his own blood before he allowed a drop of hers to be shed.

_I will protect you_, he silently told her, gazing back outside at the full moon. _I _will_ protect you…from Malefor, from _anything.

He blinked: The moon was spattered in blood. The wind cried out. Spyro stood utterly still, his amethyst eyes shining cherubically, his heart wailing to the bloodied moon.

The shadows crept closer.


End file.
